


Low-Sodium Options or, How to Make Up for Twenty-Some Years of Guardianly Neglect

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gregory Lestrade Drunken Death Grip, M/M, rom com rules apply, tim-tams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft discovers he is Lestrade's guardian angel, and he takes it very seriously.  Entry #8 for the Mystrade Fanworks Festival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low-Sodium Options or, How to Make Up for Twenty-Some Years of Guardianly Neglect

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much, original prompter, whom I do not know! And also thank you VERY much to Lucybun, the mastermind behind the Fanworks Festival, at mystradefanfest dot livejournal.

*********

Mycroft didn’t ask to be a guardian angel. He didn’t ask to be obligated to worry about his little brother. He didn’t ask for a constant feeling of imminent and irreversible doom.

He didn’t ask to be endlessly afflicted with the incredibly uncomfortable feeling that he isn’t doing enough; that ascending the ranks of the government like a meteor in reverse to create an entirely new position in which one is given absolute control over the city’s CCTV system with which to monitor every possible avenue of harm simply isn’t enough to prevent a looming calamity that might fall at any given moment.

It isn’t enough that he runs the government. So he’s taken to running other governments, too, and to preventing wars or setting them off, to upsetting entire economies or regrowing them from scratch, to getting entirely unelectable officials elected or entirely suitable officials sacked, but no matter what he does, no matter what he tries, the fear of some shadowy, lurking danger has him up at all hours, indulging in all sorts of terrible and revolting habits ranging from nail-biting to eBay sniping to eating entire boxes of Tim-Tams while watching the latest Korean dramas.

And Sherlock has the nerve to hate him! Just because Mycroft has his flatmates arrested on trumped-up charges for the third time in the Sherlock’s ill-fated attempt to live in London. They are clearly a bad sort; stable, normal, decent flatmates do not leave perfectly nice office positions to be actors.

Mummy agrees, although she has requested that Mycroft be a little kinder to Sherlock’s next prospective flatmate or mates. Sherlock, in turn, has requested that Mycroft boil his head, among other infantile and unrepeatable things.

It isn’t as if Mycroft hasn’t offered to help Sherlock afford a decent or even more than decent place. But, no, Sherlock has to hold onto his ridiculous little grudge against Mycroft’s completely understandable urge to keep him from whatever terrible fate is clearly stalking his every step. If he could just feel it, the bottomless well of worry that has kept Mycroft up at nights for years and which sometimes still does--although not as often lately, come to think of it--well. Perhaps he’d be a little less stubborn about Mycroft ordering background checks on the clerks of stores at which Sherlock shops more than once.

Unfortunately, among all the other things Mycroft has been unable to ask, having been so far unable to track down any sort of Being more Supreme than himself, he hasn’t asked whether he’s been acting as guardian angel to the correct person this entire time.

Because, as it turns out, he hasn’t.

*********

So it goes more or less like this:

Sherlock Holmes is beating a corpse one day while Molly Hooper looks on (Mycroft approves of her; not a grain of harm in that one) when Mike Stamford shows up with one Doctor John Watson, recently returned from Afghanistan, looking for a flatmate, not scared away by corpse-floggers (or, it turns out, hoarders of spare body parts or microwavers of eyeballs or persons of concern to minor government officials who are quite honestly rather good at being vaguely but nevertheless incredibly threatening in warehouses).

There is, at the same time, a nondescript cabbie who is very nearly a nonentity running around murdering people in an annoyingly showy fashion, and New Scotland Yard gets Sherlock in to deduce a motive and/or method with the help of Doctor John Watson and Doctor John Watson’s Gun, which deserves the capital letter because it is the presence of this Gun and of its owner’s mind that prevents the untimely death of Sherlock Holmes, and Mycroft doesn’t feel a single twinge of concern until he hears from another source that DI Lestrade and his team are responding to Sherlock’s call.

Even then, the concern is nothing but brotherly.

It is not, at all, guardian...ly.

But Mycroft rushes to the car and rushes to the scene and watches his brother stroll off with the only person in the world he’s ever been gracious to after having been saved from his own reckless stupidity, and Mycroft turns around and sees, for the first time, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

And he thinks, Oh.

Because, at first sight, he understands exactly for whom he, Mycroft, has been put on this earth.

And then he has a fit, because really?? It’s no wonder he’s been on a MarieBelle chocolate binge!

*********

It’s very easy to get the sort of comprehensive information on Lestrade that Mycroft requires. It’s so easy, in fact, that he spends an hour or so designing safeguards in case anyone else should look for it, for whatever reason, nefarious or not. And so, in between budget battles and diplomatic disputes, Mycroft learns the reasons behind a lifetime of torment:

1965: Gregory Lestrade is born

1972: GL falls out of tree and breaks arm; MH is extremely colicky infant

1979: GL suffers first heartbreak; MH develops strong dislike of girls

1984: GL suffers third heartbreak; MH develops strong dislike of boys

1986: GL joins the Met; MH develops insomnia because “Of course! He was working nights.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing.”

1988: GL marries Penelope Carter; “I thought that was a good year.”

“Still nothing, sir?”

1990: GL transfers to CID; MH stocks up on various headache medications for problems SH does not develop

1992: GL promoted to DC; MH begins researching CCTV systems

1995: GL promoted to DS; MH tries to get SH to quit smoking (he isn’t)

1996: GL and PL nee C seek judicial separation; “That’s the year my hair started thinning!”

“Sir? A caricature is in your brother’s flat, threatening him with a sword.”

“I’m busy, Anthea.”

1999: GL and PL divorce; MH gains 10 kilos

2001: GL promoted to DI; MH tries to get SH to quit smoking (he is)

2003: GL breaks up with first long-term boyfriend; “Ah, that was My Fair Lady.”

“Sir?”

“Korean drama. The main actor, Go Su, is incredibly handsome.”

“Ah. By the way, sir, your brother is fine.”

“What? What happened?”

*********

Mycroft isn’t sure what to do, but he hasn’t gotten to where he is today by being indecisive, so he writes a few possible courses of action on a piece of a paper, decorates it with glitter pens, hangs it on the wall and throws darts at it until Anthea comes back in and joins him (he can’t quite throw hard enough to get them to stick in the wall, but she can).

“‘Wing it,’” she reads aloud. “Dotted the first i, sir.”

“Clear my schedule and have the car take me to New Scotland Yard,” Mycroft says with a sigh.

He does not, no matter what Lestrade says later, burst into the man’s office whilst brandishing an umbrella and yell, “Unhand that sandwich!” Gregory Lestrade is prone to exaggeration. Mycroft sometimes calls it fabrication and raises his eyebrow meaningfully and, if necessary, aggressively until the spluttering stops.

However, on the day in question, Mycroft merely steps through the open door of DI Lestrade’s office, points at the sandwich with his umbrella, and says, “Please put that down, Inspector.”

Lestrade looks from him to the sandwich and back again. “My sandwich?”

“Your gastrointestinal nightmare,” Mycroft corrects. “The salad cream is off.”

Another back and forth look. “You, uh, you can tell from over there?”

The danger being almost averted, Mycroft eases over to the desk and holds out his hand, smiling brightly. “Mycroft Holmes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

There is nothing like the triumph of succeeding at a task long neglected (albeit an unintended neglect). Lestrade is forced to drop the sandwich to shake his hand, and Mycroft quickly invites him to lunch--”to have a long overdue discussion about Sherlock’s association with the Metropolitan Police Service.”

It’s better than chocolate, and Mycroft hasn’t been able to say that about anything in a very long time.

*********

They go to a little place Mycroft knows, where the chef is beyond criticism, the clientele beyond reproach, and the privacy screens pretty little shoji folding walls with golden cranes. Lestrade seems a bit overwhelmed and Mycroft compassionately decides to cut to the chase after ordering for them both.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest in your office, Inspector,” he says with artful regret, watching Lestrade mentally count the forks and picturing his thoughts as an adorable confused kitten macro: 3 forks; what do?!

“Oh?” Lestrade says weakly.

“We’re not here to discuss Sherlock.”

“No?”

“You see,” Mycroft takes a deep breath, “I’ve been labouring under the false assumption that my compulsion in regards to safekeeping has been directed at my brother when it is, in fact, directed at yourself.”

Lestrade stares. His eyes are a rather pretty brown, Mycroft notes with appreciation.

“Mr., uh, Holmes--”

“Please, call me Mycroft.” Mycroft smiles winningly, and very nearly finds himself batting his eyelashes. That’s not a common action on his part, and is something he’ll have to reflect upon later.

Lestrade swallows. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, I think it would be best.” The conversation is halted there, momentarily, by the very prompt appearance of a small selection of hors d’oeuvres.

“I simply want to ensure that your life proceeds in a safe and comfortable fashion,” Mycroft says when the waiter has floated off again. “I understand that I’m rather late, perhaps better than you do, but if one figures that I ought to have started my duties when I reached the age of majority then, well, let’s say it’s a round twenty years for which I’ve to make up, and I do fully intend to do so. Oh, these are no good; we’ll have to order something else.”

“They look fine,” Lestrade ventures, picking up a canape with an air of extreme care.

“No, don’t eat that; there’s too much salt,” Mycroft says, and Lestrade freezes, holding the canape not far from his face. After another extended staring session, in which Mycroft reaffirms his opinion re: Lestrade’s eye colour, Lestrade’s pretty eyes narrow, and he slowly and deliberately shoves the entire thing into his mouth.

Mycroft’s jaw almost drops. Lestrade holds his gaze while he chews.

So that’s the game? Mycroft’s eyes narrow as well, and when Lestrade reaches for a second canape, he sends the entire dish flying over the privacy screen with the tip of his umbrella. He then points the umbrella at Lestrade, who is slack-jawed as curses and complaints sound from behind the screen. “Do not trifle with me, Gregory.”

Lestrade’s eyes flash dangerously. “Mycroft--”

“I have spent decades enforcing my will upon Sherlock,” Mycroft says, leaning over the table. “You will let me make you happy or so help me we will both die in the attempt.”

Lestrade leans closer, too. “You’re asking for an ASBO.”

Mycroft smiles thinly. “I’d like to see you try.”

*********

He does. Try, that is. Mycroft rolls his eyes as the order is disappeared almost from Lestrade’s hand and has every vending machine at New Scotland Yard stocked with low-sodium options.

It’s amazing--wonderful--brilliant, even, to feel the difference he is making in Lestrade’s life. He ensures that Lestrade’s nicotine patches never run out, that his flat stays powered when the rest of the area goes dark, and that his commute goes as smoothly as possible--Lestrade wasn’t pleased to receive a call the morning after their first meeting with instructions on how to avoid a looming traffic snarl and therefore didn’t follow Mycroft’s well-meaning advice, which just means that Mycroft has to rise a bit earlier to iron out the kinks in Lestrade’s unchanged route. He also has to have Lestrade’s phone hacked so that it shows New Scotland Yard whenever he calls, but that was expected.

“What are you doing in my flat?” Lestrade demands, as Mycroft strolls in.

“When was the last time you replaced your mattress?” Mycroft asks, because according to his research the answer to that is “never.” And confirmation of that answer is in Lestrade’s face.

“Look, Mycroft, please,” Lestrade says, standing between him and the bedroom, hands out and eyes wide and beseeching. Mycroft very nearly bites his lip. “Please. I’m--I’m gratified, honestly, by your, uh, dedication--”

“There’s no need to thank me,” Mycroft says, but Lestrade is steamrolling determinedly on.

“But this is really, really bad for my, uh, blood pressure. Yeah. So, if you could just... back off?”

“If you would prefer a less direct approach...” Mycroft begins delicately.

“Yes, exactly!”

“...then I can have the cameras installed tonight. Discreetly, of course,” he adds, hiding his smirk as Lestrade falls over himself in an about-face.

He doesn’t really need cameras. Now that he knows Lestrade is his responsibility, he is able to pinpoint the man exactly on the mental map he has of London in his head at all times, and can get a feel for whatever he may be wanting with the minutest concentration. It’s such a convenient and comfortable set-up that Mycroft can’t believe he ever thought he was supposed to be watching over Sherlock.

“We should see about replacing your toothbrush as well. I can’t seem to find any recent dental records...”

*********

Mycroft answers the phone cheerfully the first time Lestrade calls him, because even though he knows there’s going to be little but yelling, it’s still nice that their relationship is progressing.

“Gregory, I know that you feel strongly--”

“You stole my beer!”

“I replaced it. With a very fine Merlot.”

“I don’t want a Merlot!”

“A very fine Merlot.”

“Stealing a man’s beer is not on, Mycroft!”

“A glass of red wine with a meal is good for the heart.”

Lestrade hangs up.

Mycroft is horrified when he realises that Lestrade is drinking the entire bottle, straight from the bottle, in retaliation.

He gets to Lestrade’s flat in record time, but not fast enough to prevent him from imbibing three-fourths of the bottle. In keeping with such bad luck, he’s also not dexterous enough in the ensuing grapple to prevent the remaining fourth from ending up splashed across his suit.

“Oh, Gregory,” he sighs.

Lestrade glares at him, but doesn’t get up from where he’s fallen, sprawled across the sofa.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” Mycroft tells him, removing his jacket and waistcoat with care. He lays them out on the ugly overstuffed chair and sits down on the far end of the sofa, watching Lestrade carefully.

“So fix it,” Lestrade challenges him. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “No, really. Go on. Fix it. I’m going to be extremely drunk in a mo’, I won’t stop you.”

Mycroft pulls out his phone and calls Anthea. “Arrange for Detective Inspector Lestrade to be on holiday starting tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Wait, what??”

“Yes, sir. For how long?”

“Oh, let me see; a fortnight?”

“I will murder you.”

“No, better make it ‘til Monday. He’s starting to get very red in the face.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

Mycroft hangs up, turns to Lestrade, and says, “Ta-da!”

Lestrade has buried his face in his hands. “I hate you. I hate you so, so much.”

*********

Lestrade is a cuddly drunk, even when he’s angry. He takes vindictive pleasure in forcing Mycroft to act as his pillow during a marathon of some ridiculous American program about the Vietnam War, and when he falls asleep at last, he doesn’t have the decency to be pliable; instead he digs all ten fingers into Mycroft’s tender flesh and drools on his shirt.

Mycroft is in the bathroom the following morning, discovering all of the interesting places he has bruises now thanks to the Gregory Lestrade Drunken Death Grip, when he hears Sherlock open the door and stomp into the kitchen where Lestrade is seated, red-eyed and stubbly, probably still staring at his tea.

“John is trying to force me to eat.”

“Your brother is having my flat painted a colour more conducive to relaxation.”

Sherlock is silent for a long moment. Mycroft hears him step closer to Lestrade, then there’s a pause in which Mycroft envisions him clasping Lestrade’s shoulder awkwardly, and then footsteps head back to the door.

“You bastard,” Lestrade says without heat as the door opens and shuts.

Mycroft fixes his cuffs as he walks into the kitchen. “He won’t stay if he knows I’m here.”

“I suppose you’re good for something, then.”

Mycroft is surprised, but pleased--enough so to overlook that Lestrade immediately goes for the blueberry scones that Anthea has included in their otherwise very nutritious breakfast--he’s tried to stop her, but she insists that “even God has scones with breakfast, sir” and won’t change her ways even when Mycroft leaves detailed charts and graphs about typical breakfast fare in various countries and cultures lying around (scones do not feature prominently). Besides, he’ll be taking Lestrade to lunch, and they can make up for it then.

*********

After the bombings (during which Mycroft is distracted just enough by 1. the lost Bruce-Partington plans and 2. Sherlock’s round-about way of recovering them that he makes a slightly less than perfectly diplomatic comment and has to spend days smoothing that over, not to mention working in hospital visits and coordinating protection and surveillance for his brother and Dr. Watson, among all the various other duties his career requires, and let’s not even think about what Mummy had had to say), Mycroft has less direct contact with Lestrade than he would like. He seems to be fine--or, rather, no more worried and overworked and lost than usual--but Mycroft is suddenly aware one dark, rainy evening that Lestrade is at pub.

And one of his exes is there.

And they are chatting. With intent.

“This is a bad idea!” Mycroft rages at the uncaring world as he races for his personal car. He knows that Lestrade’s phone is turned off, and that calling the pub will do no good. He’d have the power cut, but he’s afraid they would take that as an excuse to go off together.

“He’s just looking for sex! Even if he was looking for more, you can’t stand him and his profile doesn’t make up for it! You’ll regret it; you’ll hate yourself in the morning--why doesn’t this stupid thing work both ways??”

He parks on a double-yellow and makes a very rude gesture at a very rude cabbie, steps in a puddle and makes a very rude remark, and makes it inside the pub just in time to see The Ex put his filthy hand on Lestrade’s in an intimate manner. Mycroft decides that “very rude” is a good fashion in which to conduct the rest of the evening.

“Gregory, hello,” he says, sliding neatly into the tiny space left between the two men standing at the bar, wet umbrella first. “Shouldn’t you turn in for the night?”

Lestrade is visibly twitching. “What. What are you even--”

“This your nanny, Greg?” The Ex asks, leaning over Mycroft’s shoulder, and Mycroft is going to have him drowned in mouthwash.

“It appears so,” Lestrade sighs, mostly to himself, as Mycroft not-at-all-accidentally breaks The Ex’s little toe with his umbrella.

“Fucking hell!”

“What--”

“Good evening, Mister Thomson,” Mycroft says loudly, and he grabs Lestrade’s arm in a grip that promises amputation as the only option for escape. “Come, Gregory.”

“Mycroft!” Lestrade hisses, horrified and yet, to his own obvious alarm and Mycroft’s rising delight, amused. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing permanent. Although that could be arranged.”

He pulls Lestrade out of the pub and into the wet night, opening his umbrella and holding the man close to keep them both out of the rain. Lestrade stumbles on the way to the car--not drunk, surely; he can’t be feeling more than a bit of a glow--and Mycroft opens the door for him, feeling a bit like a chivalrous boyfriend.

“Really, Gregory,” he chides once he’s safe in the car as well.

“I admit it, I’m desperate,” Lestrade says, folding his arms defensively. “And he was offering.”

“You could pull much better than that.”

“Ha, right.”

Mycroft frowns. “You vastly underestimate your own attractiveness.”

Lestrade ups the ante and scowls. “You vastly underestimate the work involved in pulling strangers.”

“You vastly underestimate the discernment of your acquaintances!”

“You vastly overestimate my ability to understand what the hell we’re talking about.”

Mycroft makes a disgusted noise. “That man’s parents should be arrested for treason, letting something like that loose on our soil.”

“You sound like Sherlock talking about Anderson,” Lestrade says, pressing both palms to his eyes. “Drop us at another pub, will you?”

“No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Oh for--have you stolen my beer again?”

“Replaced it,” Mycroft corrects, “and yes.”

Lestrade sighs loudly. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Mycroft says serenely.

*********

They end up necking in the hall. Mycroft says goodbye to another suit as Lestrade yanks, pulls, and rips it loose, throwing jacket, waistcoat, and tie to the floor and sending buttons flying. It’s much easier to get Lestrade’s shirt off, and Mycroft admits grudgingly that perhaps suits aren’t always the best choice of attire, but only to himself.

They stumble to Lestrade’s lumpy sofa and Mycroft is pushed down so that Lestrade can crawl atop him, kissing him feverishly and working with frantic lust at getting their trousers open. Mycroft, who is about as skilled at this as he is at parkour, mostly sits still under the welcome though somewhat overwhelming assault, enjoying the kissing and general closeness more than the groping.

But Lestrade’s mouth is very nice, and when Mycroft takes matters--and Lestrade’s cock--into his own hands, he enjoys Lestrade’s strangled shout and post-orgasm full-body collapse very much. He carefully tucks Lestrade back into his trousers and holds him close, the gentle and negligible ache of his own arousal receding under a wave of contentment.

“Have you been tested recently?” he asks. Lestrade, whose head is resting on Mycroft’s shoulder and whose breath is tickling Mycroft’s neck, grunts something unintelligible in response and shifts so that he can curl his fingers into Mycroft’s hips. “No matter. I’ll have Anthea arrange it.”

He convinces a mostly-asleep Lestrade to relocate to the bed and settles in, resigned to the death grip and the drool. It’s worth it. He’s mostly sure.

*********

Lestrade jolts awake, immediately up to a sitting position, taking the blankets and precious body heat with him. “Oh, Christ. Did I sleep with you last night?”

“You did,” Mycroft says, just a bit smugly. “And it was marvelous.”

“Oh, Christ.” Lestrade hides his face in his hands and refuses, despite Mycroft’s insistent tugging, to release the blankets.

“You’ll do it again, too,” Mycroft continues, trying to tug Lestrade back down. He is going to get cranky if the situation doesn’t soon improve.

“Can I just have this moment?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine. But be quick about it. I’m cold.”

Lestrade sinks back down onto the bed and Mycroft fussily rearranges him and the blankets so that he, Mycroft, is covered once again. “Much nicer,” he says approvingly.

“I’m never getting rid of you, am I?”

“Just shut up and enjoy it,” Mycroft says testily.

*********

fin


End file.
